by Annis Cassells
The red light whirled and flashed on this residential tree-lined street. Not my normal route, but a diversion, a road less taken. The vested officer, shimmered in the noon-time heat, loomed tall beside the window of a maroon Mini-Cooper. The driver’s license in hand, he retreated to his silver-and-white Beverly Hills Police Department SUV. I strolled past the cop and the car. Glanced over to see a young Black man, the driver, a young Asian woman in the passenger’s seat. Both mute. His jaw clenched, hands gripped the wheel. She held herself tight, arms around her waist, rocked back and forth. I acknowledged them with a nod and Hey there as I passed. Fifty yards further, in an oasis of shade I took out my phone, brought up the camera, waited while the scene played out. A second police car approached. The two armed officers strutted in synch, surrounded the Mini-Cooper. Rooted to the steaming asphalt, I stood beneath that tree, focused, held my packages and my breath. Released it once the officer presented the ticket, the driver signed, handed it back. The Mini-Cooper remained still for twenty heartbeats. It inched away from the curb, commenced forward, stopped beside me. The young driver met my gaze, reached out his hand, shook mine. Thank you. Thank you for waiting. Because the outcome could have been very different.
Annis Cassells is a longtime member of Writers of Kern. Her poems have appeared in print and online journals. In 2019 Annis published her first poetry collection, You Can’t Have It All. She’s a contributor in the 2020 social justice anthology, ENOUGH “Say Their Names…”
It is terrible that anyone has to endure moments like this.